The Fine Art of Truth or Dare (31 page)

Tomorrow maybe I'll stroll over to Clarence House. According to a very reliable source (
Hello!
), it's Prince William's official London residence. You never know . . .

JUNE 27

SOMEDAY MY PRINCE WILL COME

No William. Too bad. He's on holiday somewhere, according to my knows-it-all source. (
OK!— Hello!
's poorer and slightly funny-looking cousin.)

Mom brought home (“home,” hah! Home is currently being occupied by the world's foremost expert on 18th century Cossack poetry) a photocopy of Mary's daughter's diary. She thinks I should read it. Apparently Miss Percival and I have a lot in common. So far, I've managed to get through the first ten pages. Her handwriting is almost disgusting, it's so perfect.

Here's what we have in common so far:

• A name (she's Katherine with a
  K
  ).
  
• Approximate age (she's 18).
  
• (S)mothers.
  
• Fab dads who are really busy.
  

Here's where we diverge:

• Katherine is a bit of a twit. All she talks about is parties and some boy she calls “Mister” Whatever and who writes poetry.
  
• She never actually went to school. I keep seeing the word “governess.” Think
  Jane Eyre
  . Or
  The Nanny Diaries
  .
  
• She has big boobs. There's a b&w photo of a painting of her with the journal. She looks like Rachel Weisz.
  
• She thinks dancing the waltz is naughty.
  
• She gets to drink at every party she goes to.
  
• She never saw a television, car, hair dryer, or flush toilet.
  

Yawn.

Onward. Thanks, Kelly, for the partay update and the pix. I especially liked the one of Adam being French-kissed by Hannah's pug. Who, as we know, is an inveterate butt licker. Most funny. And yeah, absolutely, I think She Who Shall Not Be Named must be taking diet pills. She's definitely got that pink, crazy, anatrim look going. Josh used to duck whenever she slid her Ford fender into the desk next to him.

I will acknowledge casting stones and glass houses, yada yada. My booty cannot help but expand if I continue with my experiments in English chocolate. They don't call it Bounty (same as U.S., chocolate and coconut, but so much better . . .) for nuthin'. So I took my booty out for a walk. I thought I would find a bookstore, see what Bridget Jones is up to. So, didja know they paint
LOOK RIGHT
on street corners to keep us dim-witted tourists from stepping into oncoming traffic. They drive on the left side.

Did I look right? Do I look right? Jeans, UPenn tee, my new sweater . . .

I walked past the American embassy today. Bit of a shocker there. It's on this really pretty square, one of those London–Jane Austen–Hugh Grant places with brick buildings all around and grass in the middle. But the embassy is this huge, hideous building with concrete barricades all around it. And there were all these people outside, waving signs and screaming about American troops in Afghanistan.

I'm starting to get the idea that they don't like Americans all that much these days. Lots of postcards of our former pres looking stupid and our current pres looking worried. And I think the guy who owns my chocolate store might have a picture of Saddam Hussein on the wall behind the counter.

Anyway. Keep the e-mails coming. Barring rain, and the BBC seems somewhat confused on the matter, I plan to devote much of tomorrow to Notting Hill. In the event of rain, it's just me and prissy Miss Percival here. Jane Austen she is not. I guess when you think about it, diaries then were the blogs of today. Think of it . . .
June 27. Met the hottest guy yesterday, but his 'tude makes him a total loser. I am so not going to go there. Fitzwilliam Darcy can go dance with himself for all I care.

Farewell, gentle readers, until next we meet . . .

O
THER
B
OOKS
Y
OU
M
AY
E
NJOY

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